A quarter of an hour passed. Then a youth of about sixteen hurried in
and made his way to Labaregue's table. At this instant Lajeunie rose
and left. As the youth received the "copy," Tricotrin also sauntered
out. When the youth again reached the door, it was just swinging behind
Pitou.

The conspirators were now in the right order--Lajeunie pressing
forward, Tricotrin keeping pace with the boy, Pitou a few yards in the
rear.

The boy proceeded swiftly. It was late, and even the Boulevard showed
few pedestrians now; in the side streets the quietude was unbroken.
Tricotrin whipped on his mask at the opening of the passage. When the
messenger was half-way through it, the attack was made suddenly, with
determination.

"Fat one," exclaimed the poet, "I starve--give me five francs!"

"_Comment?_" stammered the youth, jumping; "I haven't five francs,
I!"

"Give me all you have--empty your pockets, let me see! If you obey, I
shall not harm you; if you resist, you are a dead boy!"

The youth produced, with trepidation, a sou, half a cigarette, a piece
of string, a murderous clasp knife, a young lady's photograph, and
Labaregue's notice. The next moment the exchange of manuscripts had
been deftly accomplished.

"Devil take your rubbish," cried the apache; "I want none of it--there!